


The Work Schedule

by theopalauthority



Category: Bleach
Genre: Creator Ichigo, Depression, F/M, IRBB, Ichiruki Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 11:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10333760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theopalauthority/pseuds/theopalauthority
Summary: A new town, a new start. Ichigo Kurosaki makes a great change in his life, but he isn't making it alone.





	

Autumn light dips onto Rukia. It’s warm, easy, just as the weather wants to be, and it’s perfectly timed for the hour. Goosebumps pick from her shoulders down to her forearms, and her gloved fingers curl around her suitcase. The train station is empty except for random strangers. Their large, brimmed hats and wide, black sunglass, more like black holes say more about their foreign status. Their laughter combined is deep, guttural, and they wave as they pass by, waving excitedly for no explicit reason. Rukia waves in return without feeling the need, but knowing her manners couldn’t be forgotten.  

 

Her wrist watch reads forty-five minutes past two. In fifteen minutes the train should arrive with her package, and from there the real work will begin. Her feelings aren’t set in stone for the matter, taking on this job. It makes her feel restless, annoyed, and relieved in one, round ball. Anticipation is somewhere down there, she knows, but it’s buried underneath the drive to get the job done before anything can become an issue. Months have passed since her last job. It’s the least, she thinks, she can do. Her arm aches, and she shifts the suitcase, staring down the railroad tracks as if the train will magically appear before her.

 

Time’s concrete nature is painfully misinterpreted. It moves forward, never backwards. It’s estimated, counted in harsh intervals, and arrives at a natural stand point. Rukia isn’t worried. She doesn’t have time to be worried, and she doesn’t have a reason to be worried. The train’s schedule has never been wrong, and for the years she has lived in this town, and outside of it, the train’s call has always been reassuring. Good sense tells her to sit at a bench, read a book, and check her text messages, but she and good sense were never fully compatible. She continues to stand, sharp eyes watching down the way.

 

Waiting doesn’t help pass the time, but thinking certainly does. The railroad tracks and the surrounding trees don’t fade as she starts to lose focus while maintaining perfect sight. She can still see them as clear as day. The train is coming as she strays in an adjacent direction. A screeching whistle pierces through the silence, the constant roll of a steaming engine charges down the way, and she can move away from it all. Her feet remain firmly planted on the pavement, and she counts the seconds, counting to where it all began.

 

*****

 

“You have to make sure you can keep up with me.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And you have to make sure you don’t get lost.”

 

“Rukia,” Hisana sighs at her side, “don’t forget I’m older than you, and I’ve lived in the city too.”

 

Her sister’s gentle reprimand does little to calm her, but she concedes and slows her pace. Underneath the soles of her shoes she can feel pebbles scratch against each other. Hisana walks patiently behind, a tender smile playing on her lips, and the sun’s rays fall gently on her. It has a way of pronouncing her fragile, plum beauty, and Rukia can’t feel upset at this slight delay. Her fingers twitch at the side, and with a great huff, she turns on her heels without moving forward.

 

“You know, we can afford to look at the stores before we meet Byakuya,” she offers. It’s an awkward offer, as if Rukia wants to join them on their excursion, but their time together as sisters has lessened since Rukia’s internship. By the way her sister looks at her, violet blue eyes wide with hope, Hisana wants nothing more for Rukia to become better acquainted with her love.

 

She can’t possibly decline, or throw a slight fuss over this, and she sighs, closing her eyes for three seconds before opening them again, voice firm and kind at once, “Isn’t that why we’re meeting him today? But before we meet Byakuya, I do want to get some shopping done.”

 

An unearthly glow flourishes on Hisana’s face, “Of course, I wouldn’t have changed that,” she nods her head and takes Rukia’s hand into hers. It’s softer, smaller despite being twelve years older, and she leads Rukia without a second thought, looking back only to give her a sly grin.

 

“I see you have plans.” Which have not been discussed with her it appears, and Hisana’s grin broadens, “Please, don’t be hasty on my account. I’d rather you don’t spend too much.”

 

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

 

Hisana doesn’t reveal the location of their next destination, and Rukia finds her sister’s grip stronger than the last time she could recall. It’s not made of iron, something weaker, but strong all the same. Down the sidewalk they past several shops, most of them clothing, some of them furniture, and a sinking sensation drops in the middle of her stomach. Interior decoration isn’t something Rukia is keen on, and she licks her lips anxiously, keeping pace with her sister’s enthusiasm as they round another right corner.

 

The city constantly changes. It’s much different from what it used to be when she was a child. Still massive, still endless, still bordered by smaller towns and villages, but so much more now that opportunities existed where they didn’t when she was too small, too weak, to make a difference in her life. Later afternoon light chases after them, and Hisana is breathless as her pace slows, coming to a thoughtful stop in front of a bookshop.

 

Rukia has seen her fair share of bookstores. It isn’t much. Among the tall, imposing buildings flanked to its left and right, the bookshop seems meager that could use numerous renovations. But it’s a part of its charm, she decides, and Hisana hooks her arm around hers. Her expression is endless, waiting for approval, and seeing Rukia’s skepticism buried underneath her light smile, smiles brightly and pulls her in without a second thought.

 

“Hisana, what are we doing?”

 

It smells of steamed rice and dusty pages. It smells like a bookshop should smell, or the preconceived of what a bookshop should smell. Rukia’s nose wrinkles in disgust, and she catches a sneeze ready to blow. Hisana doesn’t smell anything, and if she does, she’s too excited to care. Shelves are stacked side to side, filled with books of all kinds, and she can’t help but wonder how they’re organized. There aren’t any labels attached to the shelves, not on the top, not on the bottom, and this rattles Rukia’s orderly mind.

 

She tries to pull Hisana’s arm the other way, but feels her sister’s persistence has gotten the best of her.

 

“I found this lovely place a few weeks ago.” She breathes, “And I think you’re going to love it,” they’re walking towards the register when they see the man standing to the front, “Oh, now, now, please be nice, Rukia, he’s a very nice man, and a very good friend of mine! Mr. Kurosaki!”

 

At a distance he has the appearance of an old man, but the closer to approach the register, the younger he becomes. The man is facing the wall, digging through old boxes on the shelf, and at the sound of Hisana’s voice he turns around sharply, eyes searching before settling his eyes on the pair of dark-haried women. The grin on his face could kill diseases, and Rukia flinches, forcing herself to swallow her unwillingness.

 

“Hisana!” He’s taller than most men, matching the man Rukia would come to know as brother, and his ebony stained hair is streaked in silver strands, “And, is this your daughter? No, no, you must be Rukia!”

 

Rukia flashes a look at Hisana that she shrugs off with ease, and unhooking their arms, she pats Rukia’s shoulder comfortingly and patiently, “Mr. Kurosaki, this is my sister Rukia, and Rukia, this is my dear friend Mr. Kurosaki. He is the owner of this book shop.”

 

“I’ve heard a lot about you Miss Talent Agent,” his hand stretches out, and Rukia takes it firmly, letting the heaviness trap her in.

 

“I’m actually working at a publishing company right now.” She fights down the heat of her cheeks even though she can feel the man grinning at her embarrassment without him pulling his lips up, “It’s a short program to better my editing skills.”

 

Her internship affords her the little things, an apartment and a way to pay for her living finances. It’s better than what she had before, and the memories are bleak enough for her to push back instantly the moment the images of the past begin to stir. Staring at Mr. Kurosaki forces her to smile pleasurably, the same small smile she gives to the people at her office.

 

“What a stunning job to have.” He beams and returns his attention to Hisana, “Now, what can I help you with, Hisana?”

 

“Oh!” Snapping back to life, “I wanted to know if you had any new cook books? I’m meeting Byakuya today, and I want to show him some of my favorites. He’s insistent on cooking them for me.”

 

“Really?”

 

Hisana nods, “Really.” It’s strange, seeing her sister this way. The majority of her memories of Hisana are of her working tireless hours, eyes strained and buried under heavy eyelids, falling asleep on the sofa instead of their shared bed. When she says, really, she says it not with hope but with conviction, with certainty, and something light in her shines so proudly and happily, lovingly almost.

 

Her intestines begin to twist, and she carefully unwind their arms, “If it’s alright with you, I’m going to look around, don’t worry, I don’t want to disturb your conversation.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, it’s fine.”

 

“If you get lost, one of my coworkers will be in the stacks.” Mr. Kurosaki’s grin is mischievous, that of a man twenty years younger than the one she’s looking at, “And if he gives you any trouble, call me, I’ll set him right.”

 

“Sure.”

 

Walking down the aisles feels like a maze. In a cramped bookshop like this it amazes Rukia at what it accomplishes, and she finds herself scanning the spines of the books. She presses two fingers on their surfaces, finding them clean and roughly smooth. Her nails scratch, and the sound feels comforting against her ears. The further she goes, the deeper she steps through the less she hears on the other side, but she can still see her sister’s head in the corner of her eye. The owner speaks animatedly with waving hands and a nodding head. Hisana’s easier to appreciate, however, and the slim curve of her lips makes Rukia’s chest light. She seems happy, and that’s more than she could have asked for.

 

As she maneuvers down the aisles, passing book after book, she doesn’t think of how cluttered it is. She pretends the dust doesn’t irritate her nostrils, and most importantly, she attempt to organized the flimsy order the books appear to be in. From the spines she’s noticed fiction mixed with non-fiction. Horror clashed with romance, and self-help books were put near historical fiction. It’s a mess, Rukia sees, but it isn’t her place to criticize. Her sister likes the man, and it doesn’t do to upset a friend.

 

At the end of the aisle another shelf of books are aligned with the wall. She touches the spines again and pulls back to inspect her fingers, and she sees no dust has attached itself on her skin. In fact, staring up and down the back shelves, none of the spines are covered in dust. Haunted under the brightest light the shelves are meticulously dusted, leaving a polished gleam on their surface, and Rukia’s mouth scrunches in thought. She supposes this makes sense, as Mr. Kurosaki mentioned a worker, but with the bookshop’s size she anticipates she would have seen them much sooner.

 

Lost in her thoughts she doesn’t sense the incoming presence coming behind her until she feels a shadow hovering on top of her, and her head snaps around, eyes sharp, body frigid in defense.

 

“Hey.”

 

_“Hey.”_

*****

 

“Hey!” Rukia snaps her fingers in his face, “You’re late! You do know you have a deadline to meet, right?”

 

He scowls at her but doesn’t say anything. He’s in the middle chewing the last half of his bagel, and his hands are full with luggage. They’re walking down the hall at a brisk space with Rukia leading, and she calms herself quickly, sucking in a steady breath as she counts downwards. The train departs behind them, rushing the next group of people to their destination. Outside the station her car awaits, and she bites down on her irritation, more relieved than angry. He follows behind her silently, letting her blow off steam, but the way his eyes bear down her back, tracing its outline underneath her autumn blouse and jacket sets her on edge.

 

“Do you have the manuscripts?” She presses on her car remote, and sees the blinking in the distance, “I’ve sent the others to the publishers, and they’re not expecting more after this since you’re going to be on hiatus.”

 

He keeps pace easily. It takes him no more than two strides to match hers. He’s quiet beside her, more from tiredness than annoyance. Trains aren’t his preferred form of transportation, and unlocking the door, they slip in the car as she lists the various tasks they have for the rest of the day. The engine roars to life as she puts it into drive, and they take an easy way out, moving towards the empty side of town. They pass old shops and playgrounds, very different from what they’re used to, and Rukia wonders if this is the right thing to do.

 

He doesn’t appear upset. His luggage is loaded in the back seat, some in the trunk, and the ride is oddly pleasant despite the circumstances leading to this change of pace. Rukia obeys the safety laws, tapping her fingers casually on the steering wheel, and when she looks to her side he’s there sitting, staring out the window, a ghost of a smile tugging on his lips.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“What are you apologizing for?”

 

“Making you worry,” he rolls his head to the side to get a better look at her, “because I know how you worry.”

 

She can’t help herself. She scoffs, “What do you think you’re talking about?”

 

“Did you think the train crashed or something?”

 

“Of course not!”

 

“Would’ve made it more interesting had it, but,” he stretches in his seat, “napping was easier."

 

Hearing this elevates some of her fears, some of her worries, not that the train crashing and burning was a concern.

 

“Good to hear it, and now, you can finish the last of this arc.” The drive goes surprisingly quickly, and in less than thirty minutes she driving up the driveway to the vacation house she managed to snag two years ago, “In silence, in peace, in…comfort?”

 

The vacation home is one purchased at an incredibly reasonable price. Rukia predicts it’s owner motivation overrode her own when dealing with the finances, and they wanted to be rid of the house moreso than she wanted to purchase it. She doesn’t discuss it then as she unbuckles her seat, pressing the button underneath the steering wheel that activated the back trunk. He follows after her quietly, weak but lively, and she watches him out of the corner of her eye. He moves smoothly with ease and comfort. The muscles don’t tense, don’t tighten underneath tanned skin, and she sucks in a breath, counting her steps, making sure each one has intention.

 

They carry individual duffel bags into house. It's different from this morning she sees. Not that it is ever loud, but the quietness has a fullness Rukia doesn't remember it having earlier. The table stands it did when she left. The salt and pepper holder innocently lies off side at the edge of the corner, a sign of an early breakfast. The air is honeysuckle scented, and she goes to the living room, dropping a pair of duffel bags on the floor. From where she stands she can see the sofa and the soft indention from where she slept the previous night. The television screen is pitch black, the remote still lingering on the edge of the glass table. It’s an empty home. Quiet, undisturbed, the living space's availability is obvious, and now, the chance to fill those vacant spaces, to fill the emptiness that has settled between them has arrived.

 

He might have wanted to go to the bedroom. He might have wanted to check the back yard. He sits at the kitchen table and stares, letting his shoulders roll tiredly, "It's nice," the lines around her eyes don't recoil, but he feels the cringe the squiggly lines, "I mean it. It's nice. I like it."

 

"I want you to like it." This doesn't sound right. There's more to it, she realizes, but the words she needs to convey her meaning are lost to her, "You need breathing space, and there's nothing wrong with the country. We can always move back when we're ready."

 

When he looks at her there is no tiredness, no anger, no sadness. A silent resignation treads dangerously on his lips. He wants to tell her the truth, or tells her why this move was necessary. They know they would have not changed their decisions if they could. There is no reason to smile, not now. The world has not given him a physical reason to smile, but staring at her, staring her flippant yet intrusive stare, hopeful and caring, makes the corners of his lips quirk. Her smile is far more subdued, less noticeable than his, and is hidden underneath the tumbling arch of her eyebrows. It is one of the more distinctive features her face holds, and he pulls his chin up at her.

 

“Wanna go check out the house?”

 

The house isn’t a gift. The realtor was an acquaintance of her brother’s, but she had sought the house herself, found it herself. The connection was mere coincidence. They had completed the necessary paperwork. She was meticulous, painfully at some points. He was intimidating. Together, they were ferocious, and the realtor, along with the bank, had been grateful and terrified. The deal closed swiftly and easily, and they walked carefully down the halls, sucking in the whistling silence.

 

“The bedroom is on the other side of the house,” the bathroom is wider than their shared memory, and she smiles in gratitude, the stiff coolness about the room. It isn’t all white and porcelain mixed with beige and tan, and the ceiling is a rusted red shade she doesn’t find immediately unsettling. Ichigo comes behind her, hands stuffed in his pockets, and he smacks his lips appreciatively. There isn’t much to say about décor when it comes to him. He disappears when it comes to clothes shopping, but is always present for pillow shopping.

 

The rest of the inspection follows up quickly. It isn’t extraordinary. It isn’t dull. It’s what they expect. A homely domesticity they have yet to grow accustom to. They don’t want to admit the quietness is unnerving. They city can be loud, but it is never overwhelming. It’s the people, they think to themselves. The expectations, and they go down another hall closer to their bedroom. The library smells of iris and jaded leaves, left too long in the sun. It’s a sour and strangely sweet aroma, and they smile at each other, hopeful, as they go in. The door lingers like a forgotten friend, waiting patiently for them to take their fill, and although the room is still bare. Although the room has nothing to fill the empty walls and imaginary shelves, they know this room to be true. It holds more than their future, and seated on the floor, they survey the walls and ceiling, the window with its unpainted borders.

 

He sat first. His gaze locked on the window, across the roaming hills beyond their home, “Have you called Byakuya?”

 

“I did before I left for the station.” She sits beside him, close enough to touch him without touching him, “He wanted to make sure the journey went well. Renji called. He sounded worried, but you know him. He didn’t want to sound worried.”

 

There are other friends waiting for them back at their former home. All have accepted their decision, no questions asked, and they’re grateful in their quiet way. They suspected a bombardment of inquiries, of asking why they chose to leave despite all the good things happening to them. They feared the holes people would try to dig into their lives, not windows, not mirrors so that they may reflect onto them. Their friends proved trustworthy, handing them gifts and sad faces along with their goodbyes, and there were assurances, promises to write and call when they could, when they were ready to accept them.

 

“I like this room.”

 

“I knew you would,” she grins, “The moving van will arrive tomorrow. A not so bad schedule.”

 

He stares down at her, “You planned all of this, didn’t you?”

 

“Well, yeah, someone had to.” This is wrong to say. It’s truthful, but still wrong. Unfair, and she places a hand on his arm, “You weren’t up for it, and I didn’t want you to worry. You still want to finish this.”

 

She doesn’t want him to say yes, and she doesn’t want him to say no. It’s a tedious thing to be. In the middle of want and need, not knowing which has more power, or which one is more important. She’s sympathetic, and her soft hand on his arm tells him that. She can wait. She will wait, and there’s time. But there’s guilt, and the pain filling him makes it worse. Because she shouldn’t have to wait. Her life shouldn’t be put on hold, and looking at her, seeing the age starting to draw around her eyes and lips, a similar age to his, saddens him.

 

“Don’t do that.”

 

“What?”

 

_“Don’t do that.”_

 

*****

Their fifth date makes it official. It feels more official, and he doesn’t know why it’s taken him five dates to realize this. She’s annoying. She’s loud. She doesn’t hold back, and she can be just as mean and surly as he is. She can also be pleasant, quiet, subdued, and filled with more compassion and kindness he ever thought humanly possible. His mother’s compassion is one he cannot compare to another, and he won’t try to compare them, so very different and surreal.

 

“I’m not doing anything,” she’s lying on her back, face upwards, and she’s covering her nose, now bloodied and bruise, “and you’re not a doctor, so you can’t tell me anything.”

 

“You’re picking with it.” He states flatly, and she is picking with it. Her pinky finger squeezes through to touch her overtly sensitive nostrils, and the blood seeps freely like a damaged river, on and on through her fingers, “What did I say, stop it.”

He calls his mother. Masaki is a doctor, and a good doctor at that, doing the best she can for her patients. He doesn’t want to call her at this hour, being it’s ten at night, but he knows his mother isn’t sleeping. His mother rarely sleeps at appropriate hours, and when he hears her straggling voice on the other end, meaning her mouth is stuffed with popcorn, he chuckles.

 

“Did you get into a fight?”

 

“What!?” He scoffs and puts a hand underneath Rukia’s head, “No, I didn’t get into a fight. Why’d you think I got into a fight?”

 

He can’t see what she’s doing on the other side of the line, but he senses she’s shrugging, “I dunno. Something tells me you got into a fight, but someone got into a fight. That’s why you’re calling at ten-thirty.”

 

“Fine.” With as much gentleness he can muster, he pulls Rukia into his arm, and he drags, carries her to a nearby bench. Keeping the phone from the sound of her voice, he smirks at the various obscenities that fly out of her mouth. Another positive in his mind, but he isn’t going to tell her that.

 

“What’s that sound?” Something roars in the background. His father’s snores are horrendous, “Wow, I haven’t heard that word since I was in college, or since your father stubbed his toy against the kitchen table.”

 

“It’s Rukia.”

 

“Rukia?”

 

“Yeah, she got in a fight with-,”

 

“I’m on my way. Give me the directions.” Suddenly, the carelessness in his voice dissipates, and she’s all business, no questions about it. It’s the unwavering sharpness to her voice. The potential severity if her demands are not met, and Ichigo provides them readily, following her instructions as he gives directions.

 

“That asshole,” she murmurs with her eyes closed.

 

“I know.”

 

“And she was so scared, and no one was doing anything.” She doesn’t have to explain. He had come two minutes to late just to find her on top of the man, pounding him in the face. He never thought someone so tiny could be so devastating, and she got clocked on the nose—well, it was natural to be angry to see an innocent person get hurt, someone undeserving of pain. He didn’t have to do more than necessary.

 

“Good thing you did step in.” He tsks anyways, “Make sure you come at him slow, or distract him long enough for a hidden attack.”

 

She groans, the veins at her temples visibly throbbing, “I know. My brother would be ashamed at how I rushed into it, but I got so angry at that man. The nerve of him! To treat a woman like that! Absolutely revolting, and no one was going to do anything. They wanted to pretend it wasn’t even happening.”

 

His mother arrives shortly in her car, and she doesn’t scream, doesn’t yell. Rukia sends him a glare, and he shrugs helplessly, not knowing many other doctors in the area. He knows she doesn’t want to go to the hospital, so after a brief examination, Masaki surmises that it’s time for them to go home---with her.

 

“I’m in your Mom’s car.”

 

“Yes, you are.”

 

“I’m in your Mom’s car with a bloody nose.”

 

“Yes, you are.” He glares at her, “What’s up with that face?”

 

The lower half of her face, nose included, is covered with paper towels, and she’s sitting below him on the other side of the back seat, glaring at him, as if he’s done some terrible thing. Masaki’s driving while she hums to a late night radio tune, and Ichigo doesn’t understand why she’s staring at him as if he’s done something wrong. He knows he hasn’t done something wrong. What he’s done is the most practical thing of him to do, only second to him beating the guy the second he noticed something was wrong.

 

“There are rules to this kind of thing!” She hisses lowly, hoping Masaki can’t hear them, “We haven’t reached six months, not even close, and I’m bleeding through my nose in your mother’s car!”

 

So that’s what she’s upset with. It’s never crossed him mind that protocols were a thing for her, but it isn’t like she’s tried to hide that side of herself.

 

He’s thoughtful for a moment, and leans back into his seat, crossing his arms defensively, “My parents normally don’t get to meet my dates,” there’s a slight tinge across his nose, “don’t get a lot of them to stay.”

 

The anger that rises in her chest simmers into faint annoyance, and it turns to dust. She sits in the back with her hand covering her nose, and the pain still throb but isn’t acute. It’s dark outside. She can’t see the faint blush across his cheeks, but with the way he speaks, the silence developing in the car, she knows. It’s worse for him knowing that she knows. Knowing that his mother knows despite her loud humming and soft tapping on the steering wheel.

 

Maybe there’s a flush to her cheeks. Maybe there’s something there. She reprimands herself. There shouldn’t be. After all, it’s the fifth date, and there isn’t anything special about the fifth date. The fifth date means the possibility of a sixth, the potential of a seventh. Nothing’s concrete, and she doesn’t like to be left hanging.

 

Then he grabs her hand. It’s a simple gesture. His fingers lace into hers, and she looks at him with a soft gasp playing on her lips. It’s muffled under the paper towels and dried blood, and he isn’t looking at her. His face remains on the window and the passing buildings, and suddenly, something rises in Rukia, something bright and warm. Something uncontrollable and sustained through his touch.

 

He doesn’t know why he takes her hand with his mother in the front seat. He doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever know. It feels right in the moment. He should hold her hand, and so he did. He’s more surprised when her fingers grasp his, folding instinctively without her looking in his direction, or that’s what he tells himself in the back seat. It feels that it’d be worse if she had turned to him, had batted her dark eyelashes, had beckoned him to look at her.

 

The fluttering in his chest lessens, and coolness takes it place. The drive takes longer than it should, he thinks, and his mother’s humming never decreases in volume, never softens.

 

*****

 

“Is Dad taking his medicine?” He nods, turning the stove on a low fire, “Yes, Mom, I made it safely, and yes, Rukia’s doing fine. Yeah, yeah, as soon as we can we’ll right a letter, or Skype, or whatever.”

 

“Now, you take care of yourself, Ichigo.” Masaki chides gently, “I don’t want the two of you overworking yourselves.”

 

“Yes, I know, Mom.”

 

“And make sure you talk to each other.” She nods approvingly, “Communication is the key to-,” a crash behind her makes her pause, and he hears the stomping of annoyed feet, “Isshin, are you okay, what did I tell you about trying to lift heavy shelves?”

 

The noodles bubble impatiently in the pot, and he stirs them, not waiting to hear what his dad has to say, “Look, it’s getting late, and you two really should be getting to bed,” they’re nearing that age anyways.

 

Masaki smacks her lips, and he feels the offended pout, “We are doing just fine the way we are, and I will call you later, young man,” but softly, even more tender than the tone she would use when he was a boy, “Ichigo, you take your time. Take all the time you need. You’ve done enough, and we only want what’s best for you.”

 

It’s something about mothers. It’s something about the unconditional acceptance, reassurance. Even when things aren’t going as planned their reassurances can make you believe it eventually will. He’s never admitted this doubt---that he might fail in this, that he might not get better, and hearing his mother’s voice on the other line makes the trapped feelings inside swell. Hearing her, summer in the midst of a harsh winter, and he tells her he loves. He says it two to three times, and each time his smile softens, deepens on top of the scowl he’s renowned for.

 

“Take care of yourself, Ichigo,” Masaki murmurs, and the phone ends with a curt click.

 

Night time comes easier than the afternoon. Afternoon waits and waits to past until evening arrives, and from there, everything descends into place. The house is still empty. There’s much to do to fill it up, and the hills outside stare into their home through the closed curtains. He can see the stars through the curtains, and if he chooses to peak he point their alignments. But he doesn’t intend to go to bed. He’s night owl habits are inherited from his parents, he knows this well, and there’s more of a reason for him to stay awake.

 

With his noodles he goes into the living room to be where the kitchen table has been moved. His laptop sits on top of it, plugged in, and various papers lie about near it. He eats his noodles sloppily and hungrily while staring at the laptop with its luminescent glow. He has the story planned from beginning to finish. He always had, and now, the finish line is in view. He doesn’t know what has caused this crippling pause---because Ichigo refuses to think of it as anything else but, and it’s so vivid that it pains his heart to think of the end. Also, it’s relieving, and he feels a little bit of shame in it.

 

At least, there isn’t the pressure. With his bosses leering over his shoulders, moreso than fans would like to think, he could never do anything without alerting them to some crime, and although this will continue despite the distance, it’s not as concrete. A burden has lifted off his shoulders, and as he swallows his noodles, slurping down the heat and meat, he feels less caged. He finishes his meal and sits at his laptop, stares at his notes, and he cracks his fingers, and begins to work.

 

“I didn’t get shit done.”

 

Rukia laughs, curled up beside him on the air mattress, “Did you expect to get anything done?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“But did you get any work done?” She cocks her eyes at him expectedly, “Any done at all? Because I find it hard to believe that you sat at your laptop for forty-five minutes and did absolutely nothing.”

 

“I didn’t. I tried a few panels, a few notes, and I deleted them all. I didn’t like how it sounded. None of it.”

 

Her blinks, “Better than ten months ago.”

 

He concedes that it is better than it was ten months ago. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her close. The mattress beneath them squeezes in protest. It tells them by morning it will have flattened under their combined weight, and the cold, hard floor will be unpleasant to sleep on. But they don’t care in the now. He pulls her close and looks her in the eye, and they’re just so tired. He doesn’t want to go to sleep, and she can’t find it in her to go to sleep right now, not this exact second.

 

“I’ve got work in the morning.” She pokes his nose with her thumb and smirks, “And you’ve got to meet with the movers, tell them where to put everything.”

 

He groans and takes her in his arms completely. He rolls to the side, despite her muffled protests, and he still remembers that night, that night when everything changed. Her nose cracked, broke under the weight of the man’s fists, and she blessed him with a black eye. She smiled at him then. She smiled and groaned, covering her face in embarrassment at how his mother came to pick them up. They were adults, she whispered at the house. They didn’t need to be driven home like a pair of loose tongued teens.

 

He ran his fingers through her hair. She cupped his face into her hands, and when he ends up on top, squeezing and groaning into her neck, the world collapses around them. There’s heavy petting, soft kisses, deep groans, and bucking, so much bucking. It spins, spins, spins, and he thinks of work. He thinks of how much his work has taken from this, and he’s terrified for a moment in between that he might have forgotten what this has felt like. She pulls him back in quickly, takes him in, and doesn’t let go.

 

It’s the middle of summer, and the air is thick inside. But coolness always accompany warmth, and he doesn’t want to let it go.

 

****

“I don’t want children.”

 

She’s met his mother and father before the six month mark. It doesn’t help that her sister and his father are friends. He’s met her sister and brother-in-law, and he knows he’ll like Hisana far more than he’ll ever like Byakuya.

 

He rolls on his side and stares, “You don’t.”

 

“I don’t.” She nods, “My sister has always wanted children, but she can’t have any. I can have them, and I don’t want to. I’m good with children, and I think they’re great,” she buries herself under the bed sheets, suddenly confused on what she should say to make him understand, “they’re not for me.”

 

Ichigo doesn’t understand. Being raised as the eldest, having two younger sisters and parents who always seemed so sure of what they wanted in their relationship. They wanted to get married, so they got married. They wanted children, so they had children. They wanted careers, so they resumed their education when they could, and they finished.

 

Seven years have past, and while he has always suspected he’s never heard it until now.

 

In bed, she weighs his reaction silently. Her right thumb taps the arm closest to her, “Do you want kids, I mean, do you want the whole thing,” everything feels wrong about this, asking him if he wants a family so far in the game, “I don’t want to-,”

 

“If I wanted kids that badly I would’ve told you by now.” Children are nice. Children can be a handful, and while he can see himself being a father, maybe of one or two, he can easily see himself without them too, still happily, “Kids isn’t something I can’t live without.”

“Oh.”

 

“What? Disappointed?”

 

“No, not at all.” And she isn’t. She feels light, and she wants to laugh in his face, then slap him, for making her worry. Right now, she rejoices in the fact that she’s as light as a feather, “I’m glad we’ve had this talk, Ichigo. If it makes your parents happy, they’ve still got Yuzu and Karin.”

 

His parents are happy either way. They’re not looking forward to being parents, surprisingly enough. He knows his sisters may or may not bless them with the pitter patter of tiny feet. He can’t see it from either sister, despite what their appearances may tell. That’s not worries Ichigo, and that isn’t what Rukia is worried about either.

 

It’s been seven years. Seven years have passed, and they changed drastically from what they are. She has a meeting. He has more stories to tell. More, more, and much more keeps calling to them, and there isn’t anything they can do about it. They lie in bed together, but soon, they’ll be apart for several more weeks, caught in their schedules.

 

_“We should do something.”_

_“I don’t have time._  
  
“You never have time.”

_“Neither do you.”_

Five dates turned to six months.  Six months went to seven years, and from there a decade was lived between him and her. He produced constantly, and she worked constantly. Something gave, as it usually does, and the pieces were too many for them to pick up. They decided to leave. A plan was necessary, and they crafted one patiently, putting each slot into its proper place until the moment was right.

 

It is a wise decision. It is a smart decision to know what is wanted, and what is not. It is safe to know what is needed, and what is not.

 

Ichigo remembers the conversation as clear as day. He remembers thinking what he could not say. Yes, he can live without children, and live happily at that. Living without Rukia? It is not an option he bares to consider.

 

*****

Ichigo doesn’t remember a time when he could not breathe, and that is what makes his breakdown so extraordinarily. His breakdown doesn’t suddenly happen, not that it ever does. He crashes down on him all at once, but it is years in the making.

 

He feels the rain pouring. He feels himself drowning, swept away in the flood. Her hand reaches for him, keeping him afloat, but he refuses to sink her ship. He cannot let himself on her ship until he can ride through the storm.

 

He knows she’ll refuse to let him ride alone.

 

“I’m happy, Rukia.”

 

Noodles again. He promises one of these days they will get off their asses to buy real food, or at least search for a delivery place nearby. The noodles are beef flavor this time, and the texture is a bit rubbery. Their laziness keeps them from complaining, and they’re snuggled on the floor, staring at his laptop. His work is missing. Her work is missing.

 

“Do you think he’s gonna live?” She asks between bites, and she slurps a long noodle, “I think he’s gonna die. He’s really stupid to go into the mansion.”

 

“Wouldn’t have a movie if he didn’t go into the mansion.” He turns his nose up at the effects, “But yeah, he’s gonna die.”

 

She rests in the crook of his neck, breathing softly against him. He can count her heartbeats like the beating wings of a humming bird. His heartbeat is the same, if he doesn’t know, and she doesn’t feel the need to tell him. His hand falls on the top of her head, smoothing down her dark strands, and the scent of her shampoo lingers on the palm of his hand.

 

“I’m happy, Rukia,” he murmurs against her ear.

 

She doesn’t move her head from the screen, “You are?”

 

“Yeah, I am.” He inhales, “I know it doesn’t look it, but I am happy. I am happy with you. You make me happy, and I’m happy to share this life with you. But-,”

 

“You don’t have to explain,” she doesn’t mean to be rude. She doesn’t mean to cut him short, “I get it, in a round about way, I do. I’m happy to share this life with you, and I know there’s something else going on. Something I tried to ignore, and…I’m sorry for that. I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

 

Violet hits amber, and he’s falling all over again. He smiles, “You idiot,” and pulls her closer, “don’t you dare apologize.”

 

There are tears in her eyes, and she rests her head against his chest, sniffling. Someone screams, gurgles, and blood gushes out their mouth as the machete is snatched from their gut, leaving the gaping wound behind.

 

“Shit, he died.”

 

“Yeah, he did.”

 

He rocks side to side in careful motions, “I’ll try again tomorrow, to work, I mean.”

 

“And if you don’t, that’s okay too.” She says, “It’s a work in progress.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In the Bookstore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10333859) by [StaciNadia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StaciNadia/pseuds/StaciNadia)




End file.
